Sometimes, I dream about crawling through your window and laying in your bed, so I could feel all the things that made you want to do it. I guess I’ll never know, your parents put that house up for sale a year ago and moved far away. The family that lives there now, they’re ignorant to it all, and it’s probably better that way.
But sometimes, just sometimes, I’ll drive past that little house and slow down to a crawl just to remember all the shit we went through. Once, I even got out. It was two in the morning, the house was asleep, and I crept through the backyard so I could sit in the old tree-house we used to play in. I smoked two cigarettes, long enough to remember, and then I left.
It was enough to remind me that you had existed, and you weren’t just some childhood fantasy that came and went with the move.
